Tidings of Comfort and Crime
by Wordwielder
Summary: (A very late) response to Hades' December Challenge!
1. Chapter 1

**_Hello all and merry belated holiday season! This December has been incredibly busy for me, as I just graduated undergrad, and I was so busy with that and my part-time job that I almost missed the December challenge this year. However, I am intending to complete it as always, as behind as a I am. I spaced on sending Hades my prompts until December 3rd, so I used a random word generator for my first three prompts. I imagine they might be a bit shorter this year; I'm trying to get them done faster since I'm so wildly behind._**

1\. Orange

Mary Watson balanced a small orange in her hand, gazing upon it with a strange wonder. John Watson paused from where he had been stuffing stockings, knit by Mrs. Hudson, with tops, jacks, a packet of nuts, an apple, a peppermint stick, and oranges. He and Mary had completed seven of the seventeen they were working on for the Irregulars, and setting aside extra materials to stuff into the stockings going to the boys they knew had siblings who they would want to share with.

"My love?" he inquired. Mary started. "My apologies, darling, I was miles away." She tapped the orange with a smile and slipped it into a stocking. "When I was young, I often had stockings like these. The oranges were so sweet."

Implicit was the sentiment that Mary had often had oranges and little else during the time after her father's disappearance, where she had no family and little wealth. He loved her all the more for refusing to say as much. Mary often walked a line between pride and optimism about her past. It was like her to remark on the sweetness of the fruit instead of the poverty it represented. He handed her one.

"Not so sweet as you, I'm sure," he said, and kissed her temple as she began to peel.


	2. Chapter 2

2\. Flowers

Occasionally, clients liked to send Holmes tokens of their appreciation for solving their cases. Sometimes they were merely kind notes, sometimes alcohol or tobacco, sometimes larger gifts. He had even received a gold watch from an heiress once, who dismissed his protests that he couldn't accept it by saying, "We have dozens like it, Mr. Holmes, thanks to your pains to protect our fortunes."

On a bitter winter's day, I struggled into 221 Baker Street, slamming the door shut on the wind seemingly intent on pursuing me and dragging me back into the cold.

"Any flurries?" Mrs. Hudson called.

I shook the snow-slush from my parasol. "Unfortunately."

The upstairs apartment was glowingly warm, which was a relief; Holmes had been so absorbed in his minutia earlier I had feared he'd let the fire extinguish while I visited my editor. Holmes was reading over one of my practical botany books, and a bouquet of yellow lilies and red carnations were set on the sideboard.

"Taking an interest in flora, I see," I said as I shed my overcoat. "A client gift?"

"Evidently one with some seasonal magic, or more likely, access to a greenhouse," Holmes said with a smile. "I confess I was looking in your books to determine the meaning of these flowers in particular. You have told me before that bouquets must be chosen with absolute care."

I smiled. Holmes was referring to an afternoon some years ago, during my courtship, where I had slipped into a florist's on one of our afternoon walks. Holmes had been impatient as I browsed, picking flowers here and there. "Have some roses and let's be off," he said, and I shook my head. "Roses' meanings vary by color, my dear Holmes. Even that is an undertaking."

"Yellow lilies are gratitude," I said now. "Red carnations are admiration. A client thinks highly of your work."

Holmes shut the book. "Thank you, Watson. As always, your knowledge proves handy to fill gaps in my own."


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. Lackadaisical**

In an unusual turn of events, Mycroft Holmes had rapped smartly on my door one evening in 1893. I had passed the occasional evening at his Diogenes Club when the quiet of my own home turned poisonous, and seen him there, where we exchanged nods and he studied me in that unsettling way he and Sherlock had perfected. But he had never come to pass an evening in my parlor, and I was surprised to see him.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," he greeted. "I happened to be passing this way on an affair, and thought I might bid you hello."

"Welcome," I said, acutely aware of the gloom and untidiness of the parlor, which I had failed to pick up in several days and which I had told the poor maidservant to stop worrying about after the loss of several discarded beginnings to stories, which I had unfairly raged about. My writing had stalled, and every word I wrote and balled up sparked and died in seconds. Mycroft gave no indication he had noticed anything different from when my wife kept the room tidy and warm, though I knew he must've have discerned a great deal in a quick glance.

"Please sit," I said, remembering my manners. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"A brandy would be fine."

I made him his brandy and handed it into his hand.

"How are you, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft said. "I know these past months, and years, have been marked with misfortunes."

I smiled bitterly. Mycroft had always been a delicate speaker. "Doing my best."

Mycroft sipped his drink. "When I was a young man," he said. "I simply did not know what would become of me. I had the finest education and a supportive family. And yet, I did not feel any passion or interest in the things I was introduced to- finance, bureaucracy. I spent my days in a lackadaisical haze, reading, eating, and lounging. You see, Doctor, I had enormous brainpower and an utter disinterest in using it for even my own benefit."

"What changed, then?"

Mycroft smiled. "I realized that it was no use fighting my own nature. To an extent, Doctor, I believe we are who we are meant to be, and I was meant to be a brain. And so I found my way to use knowledge practically. I tell you this, Doctor Watson, because I feel you may be fighting your own nature now."

"How do you mean?" I bristled.

"It is very human to grieve," Mycroft said simply. "There is no shame in loss. You may never be quite the same. But it saddens me to hear that you do not write anymore."

"I have no material," I said. "The work is done."

"I know you have many stories untold," Mycroft replied. "Stories of cases or not. I know you tried to keep the agency going for a while. No one can be Sherlock Holmes, not even me. It is not a betrayal to tell stories that aren't his, Doctor Watson. You have your own. Otherwise, you waste your talent."

"Sherlock never thought much of my tales," I said, a true smile forming.

"My brother always had terrible taste, Doctor Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

**Very glad to have finally progressed to prompts!**

 **4\. Domina Temporis: Chimney Sweep**

When a scruffy gentleman entered our rooms somewhat unceremoniously, I was surprised, and somewhat embarrassed, as I was more slovenly than might be expected at such a late hour. The light snow falling outside had convinced me to stay bundled in my chair for the entirety of the day. Holmes had been gone when I awoke and had not yet returned. I assumed he was chasing a case, and knew he'd share any findings with me when he arrived.

The man was coated in soot, holding a sweep's kit.

"Did Mrs. Hudson send you?" I asked, and he jumped.

"Didn't see ya, sir. Uh, yes, I've been asked to clean the chimneys. D'ya mind?" He gestured, indicating I ought to leave the room. "Pardon, but I don't want ya to breathe in the dust."

"Certainly." I stood and took my book to my room. It occurred to me that Mrs. Hudson rarely forgot to mention help coming in, but I shrugged it off, assuming that she'd merely had more important things on her mind during the holidays.

I dozed off in the late afternoon, and awoke to a kerfuffle. I dashed into the sitting room to find ash strewn everywhere, including on my friend, who was wrestling the chimney sweep. He elbowed the man in the face, and finally, he slumped.

"Apologies, dear Watson," Holmes said with dignity, "I should have been more diligent in warning you. The case I'm working at seemed innocuous when I took it on, but evidently, there are powers at work that want me off the case. This gentleman ambushed me from the chimney when I arrived home. I assume Mrs. Hudson thought one of us had ordered him, and you thought she had."

"Precisely," I said with horror. "Are you alright?"

"I'm quite fine. In fact, I've got a strong lead, if you'd care to dress and join me."

"What of him?" I nodded to the prone figure. Holmes considered. "Let him awake and tell his employer that we are not so easily overcome."

 _That's a generous we,_ I thought, but went to dress.


	5. Chapter 5

**5\. From Ennui Enigma: If Holmes and Watson were a fairy tale, what fairy tale character might they be. Little Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots, Jack and the Beanstalk, etc. Make up your own story or adapt a fairy tale incorporating Holmes (and Watson if you want) into the tale.**

Once upon a time, there was a happy family of two young boys, a mother, and a father. They lived on a estate near a forest in a small but cozy home with many dogs. The eldest brother, Hamish, loved his brother, but had a troubling tendency to tease and push his little brother John away. John loved Hamish very much, and looked up to him greatly. In time, age and illness took their parents, and a war came in the land, and the younger brother became a soldier, leaving his older brother Hamish alone to tend to the house, and the older brother fell into alcoholism.

The younger brother fought bravely, but was injured in the war, and took a long time to heal. When he finally returned home, he was astonished to discover the family home empty, and showing evidence of having been that way for months. No one knew where his brother had gone. John slept his his dusty old bed and vowed to find his brother. The last dog of the family still alive when John had left for war emerged from the forest a short time later, much aged and weak but still loving toward John. He greeted him warmly. "Where is Hamish?" John asked, and the faithful old dog led John into the forest. On the path, there were stones dropped, like a trail. The dog led John for a long way, then simply lay at the base of a tree and closed his eyes, and John knew the faithful old dog had led him as far as he knew to go. John pet him and continued on, following the occasional pebble he found.

The night began to fall, and John, without food or water, considered turning back. Then he saw a charming little cottage, bright and cozy, and decided to ask for help there. As he grew closer, he smelt the intoxicating aromas of fresh bread and pie, just like his mother had baked, and heard the sound of a harp, like his father had played, and he could hear the happy bark of dogs, and his brother's laugh. He closed his eyes and realized this was the world without death, without a war, without loss, and he knew his family must be inside. He tried to enter the door, but it was locked. He began to weep, and the door cracked.

"Can I help you?" A soft, kind voice asked. It was a gentlemanly elder man, holding a telescope.

"Please, I...I'm hungry, and..."

"Yes, of course. You may come in. As long as you'll agree to help me in kind."

"Of course, whatever I can do," John said rashly.

And in he went.

The host smiled. "I am Professor Moriarty," he said.

The Professor allowed John a warm bath and a hot meal.

"I heard..." John said.

"Yes, I know," the Professor said. "And you will have it, what you desire. I will give it to you, for this is a magic place."

"Did my brother come here?"

"He did. I will take you to him. But mustn't you rest first?"

"I am awfully tired," John said, and he slept, before he could comprehend the sudden, heavy nature of his tiredness.

He was awoken before dawn by a frantic hand, and a young, sharp-eyed man, close to his age, whispered, "You must go while you can."

"Who are you?" John said.

"I am Sherlock," the young man said. "I too was seduced here, with the promise of lost things and things I had only dreamed of. The Professor cannot help you."

"He said it was a magic place."

"It is. Magic doesn't mean good."

"He means me harm?"

"You and any other weary traveler. He means to promise you your greatest desires, then rip out your heart full of hope and eat it whole, to regain his power. Nothing is so delicious as hope, and it keeps him strong."

"My brother?"

Sherlock looked sad. "If you heard him, my friend, I'm afraid it was only one of Moriarty's illusions. He is not here."

"Was he?"

"He may have been," Sherlock said. "He may have seen your family whole again and forgotten his thirst for drink. But he is gone now."

"Who are you to tell me this?"

Sherlock smiled. "I was like you, once. I sought knowledge and the pride of my family. I saw it here, and I entered."

"Why didn't he eat your heart, then?"

"He says I still don't have enough hope to taste nice, and he fears I never will. So he keeps me here, and I try to warn others. No one ever listens."

John looked desperately at the latched door. "Are you sure my brother isn't here?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then I have a duty," John said. "I must stop this monster, and burn down this cottage, so no others will be seduced this way and no more lives will be lost. Will you help me?"

"I will."

The next morning, John ate breakfast with the Professor, who promised to bring him to his joy soon. Sherlock was hiding, and held in his hands a small dagger John had furnished him with. The Professor claimed he must build a fire and brew a potion to let John into the joyous other place, and John played along.

"The last ingredient is your blood," The Professor said. "Just a drop. I must cut it from you."

Trembling, John held out his arm. He closed his eyes.

And Moriarty aimed for his heart, and John leapt aside and Sherlock burst from the wardrobe, and Moriarty roared, spinning around as John snatched the dagger from him and held it to his own black heart.

"I might've known," Moriarty snarled at Sherlock.

And Sherlock and John nodded, and together, they cut the evil thing's heart from its chest. It was cold and black and pulsed faintly, hissing. the Professor screeched and crumbled away, and they tossed the heart onto the fire, where it screamed and squiggled, and finally, disintegrated into a lump of black ash. The house fell away, the illusions gone, and they stood in an old moldering ruin.

"What now?" Sherlock said, very softly.

"Now we return to my home, and make it a warm place again," John said, and they set off out of the forest towards the future.


	6. Chapter 6

6\. From BookRookie12: Infinite

A peculiar mood had come over Holmes that evening. He had partaken of his seven percent solution, but still seemed restless, not yet sunk into the haze of his habit. He rose from the couch, and stood by the window, pulling the curtain aside with a trembling white hand. The stars were bright, and moon reflected a strange, otherworldly pallor onto my friend's face. His eyes seemed sunken and his nose overlong; he looked like an alien being deposited rudely onto the Earth without so much as a goodbye. He opened the window and shivered, drawing his dressing gown closer, but still did not back away from the night.

"Holmes," I said, standing up and crossing to him, struck by a sudden fear he would attempt to leap out of the window. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered at my touch, blinking owlishly. I shut and latched the window.

"What are you thinking about, my old friend?" I asked softly.

"Infinity, I suppose," Holmes said at last. "Eternity."

"Do you mean life after death?"

"No," Holmes said. "More so that life itself is quite infinite. The grass grows and is cut down and grows again. The days pass much the same as the ones before. 'There is nothing new under the sun.'"

"I find that scripture narrow," I said. "Truly, things cycle, dear Holmes. But they vary just a little all the same. For example, tonight I've taken my tea with only one sugar, and I've read the London Examiner instead of the Inquirer."

"You've done these before."

"But perhaps never together. And never on a night where we debated infinity while gazing at the stars."

Holmes was quiet. "It is a dreadful thing to be bored," he said. "These days of boredom are hauntingly the same."

"So we must vary them," I said. "Rest. Let us put away your vices and rest."


	7. Chapter 7

**7\. From cjnwriter: Holmes and Watson discover something anachronistic. How do they react?**

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his esteemed colleague, Dr. John Watson, sat before a roaring fire, smoking luxuriously. The great detective was in full traveling garb, and Watson's briefcase sat at attention by the door. They both appeared deeply in thought. The record player on the sideboard played a violin sonata, trilling and falling in turn.

Holmes bolted upright, eyes narrowed. Apparently, he had had a breakthrough.

"Watson!" he said. "I have found it." He crossed to the record player and tapped it. "Here is our anachronism, our glitch in the system, my nagging feeling."

"What do you mean? Haven't we had that? Doesn't it feel familiar?"

"What year is it, Watson?"

"1891, as you know."

"Yes. And I know, as do you, that the phonograph was invented in 1877, but it's not a average man's possession in the year 1891. It'll be many years before a humble household as ours could afford such a thing."

"Then we've fallen victim to poor research."

"I'm afraid so. We can only hope the editor catches it."


	8. Chapter 8

**8\. From BookRookie12: Making things right.**

Tobias Gregson had decided to retire, and the party was in full swing.

The decision had started with his arthritis, which was steadily worsening as he aged. Chases after culprits were out of the question, and even stairs had started to pose difficulties. More so than that was a certain dulling of his senses that he become more and more aware of: his hearing and smell fading, slower connections and younger detectives finding clues faster. After forty years of service to Scotland Yard, Gregson decided it was time to retire to cozy days in front of the fire and quiet nights with his missus.

Gregson was sipping a scotch as his coworkers reminisced about his goofs and triumphs. His ears were pink, but he was smiling.

Dr. Watson walked in with a slight limp of his own and his smiling, slightly greying wife Violet on his arm. Gregson crossed to him, and the doctor clapped his shoulder.

"Dr. Watson!" Gregson exclaimed. "I see we've drawn you out of your country home for the Holmes?"

"He'll be here as well," Watson assured him. "Congratulations, old boy. Forty years."

Doctor Watson was recognized, and there was a happy uproar, as other Inspectors filled over to give him their greetings. They were so involved Holmes himself almost went unnoticed as he slipped up and embraced lightly Violet Watson. A second roar went up, and the din was joyfully loud. Gregson extricated himself after a quick exchange with Holmes and drew to the punch table, where Lestrade was lingering.

"What a hullabaloo," Lestrade said fondly.

"Isn't it always with those two?"

They grinned.

"I have something for you," Lestrade said, fumbling to pull a small parcel from his coat. "I just wanted to say," he said as he handed it over, a little embarassed, "I want you to know, for all our disagreements, that I have always valued you as a colleague and a friend, and I hope all is right between us."

The parcel contained a small bound book of clippings where Gregson had been lauded over the years; Lestrade had also included a copy of some of Watson's stories, where he had underlined a line about bravery. Gregson found himself growing emotional, and merely said, quietly, "Of course it is all right between us, Gregory. Thank you."


	9. Chapter 9

**9\. From KnightFury: Hot water!**

I had not expected, when I suggested that Holmes take a holiday to the the hot springs at Bath to soothe his nerves, that we would literally find ourselves in hot water.

Holmes and I had recently returned from a whirlwind case Holmes had taken from a Russian princess that had us zigzagging from Moscow to Prague. After a month chasing the Princess' dastardly ex-butler, finally culminating in Prague, we began a long trek home on a series of trains. Holmes, true to form, had wanted to return immediately to his work, but as his physician, I grew concerned. He had eaten little over the last month, despite my best efforts, and slept even less. I had forbidden any drug use on the trip, and I noted, with fear, symptoms of withdrawal. His hands and arms trembled, and he seemed constantly pale and tired. He reached for the bottle as soon as we re-entered 221B, but I batted him away.

"Do not erase a month of progress, Holmes," I said. "Rest and a hot meal will do more for you."

He glared, but put away his vials.

After a few more days observing his weakness, I insisted we take a holiday. Predictably, Holmes fussed, but I proved victorious.

Holmes did little more than complain the first day, but by the second, he had agreed to at least see the springs with me.

Naturally, we had scarcely sunk into the baths when we heard a shriek. Holmes was up in a flash, a joyous expression on his face.

"Come, Watson," he cried. "The game is afoot."


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. From SheWhoScrawls: Mr. Hudson?**

 **(I was excited for this one! There's a lot of theories out here about Mr. Hudson).**

 _ **A tale in four possibilities.**_

 _ **1\. Florida**_

Louise Reid was twenty-one years old and far from home. Across an entire ocean, in fact, in the suffocating, humid heat of Florida. Her husband had not been home for three days, and most likely, he was in an opium haze, or maybe he was just sweating scotch. Louise didn't have the energy to worry after him anymore. After the miscarriage, she had been guiltily grateful, for it was just a day before that she'd learned the extent of his criminal ties.

"God in Heaven, Franklin," she'd said. "You can't trust those people. We must return to England."

"Americans know about boats, dear," he'd said testily, and fearing his fists, she'd quieted.

She found out about the arrests from the papers, of all things. Her husband, in jail for a double murder of two opium-addicted women. The evidence seemed ironclad. Maybe he'd been framed, maybe he'd been trying to get out after all. Maybe he'd killed them in cold blood.

She booked passage home and left in a gray dawn, and changed her name to Martha, her middle name, and took the her mother's maiden name, Hudson. Louise Reid died in Florida.

 ** _2\. The Deep Blue_**

Frank was on furlough, and Martha Hudson planned to make each moment count. She showed him the modest two-story they'd put their savings into, and how neatly she'd arranged the bottom level for them. She cooked all this favorites, and they went on daily strolls through the city, talking and talking and leaning into one another.

"You're such a beauty, darling," Frank said. "How I long to see you when I'm at sea. The ocean is so mercurial. It steadies me to remember my faithful wife at home."

"Thank you, my dear," Martha said. "I cannot wait for your service to conclude. What will we do, when we can be together for more than a few days?"

"Fill up that apartment with little Hudsons," he smirked. "And I suppose I'll have to find work. What do you see me doing?"

"No reason to stay from the water," she said. "Heaven knows they need fisherman and workers at docks. As long as the ocean stops taking you so far from me."

It was only a few months later the ocean took him farther than she could ever follow.

 ** _3\. Frailness_**

"Damn it all," Frank coughed.

"Will you please let me call the physician?" Martha said, exasperated. "Or are you going to let that cough kill you?"

"It won't," he snorted, wrongly.

 ** _4\. White Lies_**

Martha Hudson was forty years old and unmarried when her father passed away, and being a liberal man, he left a sizable trust to his eldest daughter. She went to Scotland for long enough to help her mother and sister arrange the services and pay debts, and then she returned to London to quit her teaching job. She took her money and bought a small two-floor flat, and when the nosy realtor, a clear traditionalist, asked after her husband, she lied: "Oh, he's recently passed. It was always his dream for us to be landlords, but I suppose it's just me now."

And so a husband she'd never sought became part of the fabric of her story: Martha Hudson, widow.


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. from Winter Winks 221: 'I trusted you!'**

Wiggins looked decidedly glum when he trudged into 221B two days before Christmas, wrapped in an outrageously baggy coat inherited from Dr. Watson's castoffs when he moved from 221B. Holmes and Watson, who was visiting to spread cheer whether Holmes liked it or not, were in spirited conversation by the fire, and both greeted Wiggins fondly.

"Christmas cookies?" Watson offered. "My wife made a large tin for the residents of 221B, and you count, I'd say."

Wiggins shook his head. "Not today, sir, though much thanks to Mrs. Watson."

Watson didn't need Holmes' astonishing powers of deduction to see something odd about this. The doctor and the detective exchanged looks, and Watson said carefully, "Is everything alright, Wiggins?"

Wiggins looked rueful. "On second thought, can I grab a cookie?" Watson held out the tin, and Wiggins said on the rug, munching.

"It's me sister," he said. "T'other day, she comes to me with all these questions about Santa Claus, and how he's comin' soon and how he's gonna find us in the new place and whether he'll bring oranges and all that, and then she out and asks me whether he's real. She's seven, y'know, and she's had a hard time of it. I've tried right hard to keep her believin'. But the other kids have been talking..."

"And what you'd say?" Watson prodded.

"'Course I told her he was. What else could I say?" Holmes looked like he might say something, but instead he merely nodded, intent on Wiggins' face.

"Well, she went around defending Santa because I said all that, and the other kids teased her, and last night, she bursts in, shouts, 'I trusted you!' at me, and hasn't said a thing since. I don't know what to do, to tell you honest."

"It is a problem," Holmes said seriously. "Do you think it is time to tell her the truth?"

Wiggins shrugged. "Maybe? I don' know."

"Perhaps 'Santa' could pay her a visit," Watson suggested.

"I don' trust her not to tug a beard off a face," Wiggins said. "She's real sharp like."

"I have a thought," Watson said. "If I could trouble Holmes for some paper and ink."

 _Dear Sarah,_ Watson wrote in pretty cursive. _I have heard that you are having trouble believing in Father Christmas. That is very normal. Most grown-ups, even, have trouble believing in things they can't see. I want to assure you that Father Christmas is real, in his own way. That is, you can't see him or touch him, but he exists because of the love in your heart. As long as people are kind to one another at Christmas, and give each other love, Father Christmas will be there. Your brother Wiggins' love for you is why Christmas will be magical this year. Please forgive him for his inability to explain how Father Christmas is there even when he's not. It is difficult even for grown-ups. In many ways, children are smarter than adults. Merry Christmas, Sarah. I believe there may be an orange in your future._

 _Sincerely,_

 _John H. Watson_

"Give her this," Watson said. "It's how my mother explained it to me." Wiggins scanned it quickly, and smiled. "Thanks, Doctor." He eyed the tin. "Can I take a few of these with me?"

"Of course."

"Oh, and here's my report, Mister Holmes," he said, handing over a grubby piece of paper. "I'll be headin' home now. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Wiggins."


	12. Chapter 12

**12\. From Ennui Enigma: Holmes discovers a magic room. He can enter the room and time stands still around him. When he exits this room, time starts up again at the same time he entered. Write a story of what Holmes' chooses to do with his discovery.**

Sherlock Holmes was no longer a young man. Nor was he precisely old. At fifty-one years of age, he was middling. As such, he had days of absolute clarity, absolute vigor, where he scarcely felt over boyhood. Other days, he scarcely felt like rising in the morning to study the bees.

Consulting work had slowly considerably, but occasionally, when faced with a prime problem, Holmes found himself doing the old legwork. But he was no longer a young, spry man, and cases wore him out for days at a time.

He first discovered the restorative properties of the attic accidentally. He'd stored his books up in the garret, and after spending several hours alphabetizing cases, he's come down to find his housekeeper still cooking the very same lunch he'd left her working on.

"Did you forget something, Mr. Holmes?" She inquired. She was a young, wide-eyed woman, who lacked some of Mrs. Hudson's fire.

"No," he managed.

Thereafter he went to the room on days when his body and his mind threatened to overwhelm. He would sit, in quiet meditation, and read his books, and massage his aching joints. He stored food and water and made a small cot, and when he needed, he would rest, quietly, and think about the problems of bee-keeping and logical deductions, and when he felt ready to return to the world that did not stay still, he would descend the stairs and return.


	13. Chapter 13

**13\. From Domina Temporis: Going on holiday**

"Have you packed your boots?"

"Yes."

"A church outfit?"

"Yes."

"A book?"

"Two."

"A parasol?"

"Yes!"

"And parchment, to write back to nan?"

"Mother!"

"Oh, all right," Charlotte Watson sighed. "I suppose you're ready to go on holiday then. Has Hamish packed?"

John looked at his mother sympathetically, and she sighed and got up to march into Hamish's room and fuss over _his_ luggage next.


	14. Chapter 14

**14\. From sirensbane: Holmes is surprisingly good at...**

A case had taken us into a dark neighborhood of London. Children ran past us in thin, ragged clothing, and their mothers watched us from their windows with suspicion. The pub we past was half-full of men with hopeless eyes. I felt guilty for the quality of my shoes. Holmes' face was difficult to read.

A group of children were playing jacks down an alley. A small boy, perhaps about five, was sitting, watching them alertly.

"There," Holmes said. "A boy with eyes like that may well have seen our culprit, if I am correct about his route." He darted into the alley, and said kindly to the boy, "Hello."

The boy blinked and said nothing. The other children, their game halted, eyed us.

"I see you're whittling."

The boy looked at his hand, where he held a dull pocketknife and a scrap of wood, hald carved into a shape I couldn't identify.

"I'm not so good at it," the boy said. "My brother's been teaching me, but he's at work."

"May I?" Holmes held out his hand. The boy looked unsure, but handed Holmes the wood and knife. "It's a dog?" Holmes confirmed, and the boy nodded. With a few deft flicks of his wrist, a dog's shape emerged. The boy's face lit up as Holmes handed it back.

"Thanks!"

"Of course. What's your name?"

"Charlie."

"Well, Charlie, perhaps you can help me as well."

Charlie indeed gave us good information. Holmes thanked him and slipped him a coin, and we were on the scent again.

"I didn't know you could whittle," I said.

"Mycroft taught me as a child. There's often little for country children to amuse themselves with."

I marveled at yet another side of my friend I had not known, and we continued on.


	15. Chapter 15

**15\. From Madam'zelleG: Chancery**

 ** _Had to look this one up: A court of equity, in which a judge can order acts performed, such as that a contract be modified or an activity stopped. The chancery court's functions are distinct from those of common law courts, which can order money damages to be paid, and where jury trials are available._**

Holmes and I were attending the trial of a poor, misaligned soul, and while I could not speak for him, my own heart was heavy. The young lady, Susanna Gowers, had been ill-used by her husband, a black soul who had forced her to work as a housemaid to contribute to the household and who then immediately drank her paycheck. After Susanna grew clever enough to hide her wages in a bank and save enough to leave him with the children, her husband beat her savagely. She had come to Holmes, who saw the straightforwardness of the facts but took the case out of the gallantry of his heart.

"Herbert has somehow obtained a some sort of legal document stating that I have only ever given him my wages out of a self-perceived wifely duty," she said desperately.

"And does your signature appear on the document?"

"I don't know how, but it does."

"And it is your own hand?"

"Yes. Even I know it."

"Does he have other evidence?"

"Letters I wrote in my youth," she said bitterly. "Drivel where I wrote that I would always like to help support us both financially as well as emotionally, when I thought we would be equal partners in all ways."

"Not legally binding, but suggestive," Holmes said thoughtfully. "Madame, I believe that this is a rare case where the courts may be the route to solving your quandary. I suggest you pursue a case of unjust enrichment against your husband in the Court of Chancery, where the common law is more flexible."

And so here we were. Susanna had given an earnest testimony about her ill treatment, and all evidence had been presented.

The jury came out favor of our girl, and Holmes and I both could barely restrain our joy. Susanna wept. The judge returned with sentencing and pronounced: "Mr. Gowers, I order you to recompense your wife in all wages she has given you. If you cannot pay your wife within a year, I will commute your sentence to a work program, and I assure you, you'll wish you'd paid her promptly. Your wife is authorized in the eyes of this court to pursue dissolution of the marriage, due to the cruelty demonstrated in her testimony. Furthermore, sir, I order you to apologize to your wife."

"What?" Gowers said, dumbfounded.

"Apologize, sincerely, to your wife, right this moment, or I will move to prosecute you for noncompliance."

"I..." Gowers turned towards Susanna. "I am very sorry," he said stiffly.

"For what?" Susanna asked, eyes gleaming.

"For taking your money."

"And?"

"Ill using you."

"Funny way of saying violence, but it'll do."

The judge smiled. "And with that, I dismiss the court. Merry Christmas, all."


	16. Chapter 16

**Finally hitting halfway! Thanks all for reading this late ol thing. I haven't gotten to respond to reviews yet, but I do appreciate you all very much.**

 **16\. From** **zanganito: Propolis**

 **I had to look this one up too!**

"Look at them, Watson," Holmes said. "They are nothing if not industrious. Truly, I envy their zeal."

The bees Holmes kept were bustling around us. The air itself seemed to vibrate with their buzzes. I had come for a weekend visit to Holmes' cottage in Sussex, and he had been eager to show me how his hive had expanded since my last visit.

"Let me show you the honeycombs," Holmes said. "Here, put on these gloves. They are quite docile, but all the same, they are not as used to you." Once I was correctly garbed, Holmes expertly slid out a segment of his bee-box, and gestured for me to see the glistening combs, dripping with what he had assured me was the most sweet honey he had ever spread upon his breakfast toast.

"What's that?" I said, pointing at a reddish, sticky substance I saw between some combs.

"That's propolis. It is resin bees collect from tree buds. They use it to fill crevices and varnish the honeycombs." This was delivered with a lovely joy, and I smiled to see my friend so absorbed in work again, this work less likely to lead to treasonous waterfalls.

"I am glad that they fascinate you so," I said.

"Bees remind me of the best of humanity, Watson," he said. "They are humble, tenacious, hard-working, and interconnected for their mutual success. If only we could set aside our own discord and work for the betterment of the entirety of our people, as the bees do."

I believe in that moment we both thought of the clouds of discontent growing heavier over Europe, but we did not mention it. Instead, Holmes collected some honey, and we went inside the house for bread and tea to have with it.


	17. Chapter 17

**17\. From** **W. Y. Traveller: A cold night in a strange town.**

I was not sure how we had gotten into our current predicament. Holmes had been approached by Northern scientists about vanishing polar bears.

"And I don't mean they're being slaughtered or dying of discernible causes," Dr. Ralph Higgins said. "I mean they are quite literally vanishing, seemingly in seconds."

And so we found ourselves in the Northern Pole, bundled beyond recognition, sitting in a remote outpost, waiting a polar bear to appear and then disappear. After hours of a fruitless wait and a cold, unsatisfying meal for supper, Holmes jolted, and elbowed me. "Look," he said. "A specimen."

The polar bear lumbered along, looking very solid and safe. Then suddenly, we heard a strange call, a low, vibrating horn, and the wind and snow pelted down even more fiercely. Something seemed to strike the ground before our bear, and in an instant, through the veil of snow, he was gone.

"Blast," Holmes said. "Come, Watson, we must take a closer look."

"I…" I started, but instead took a bite of jerky and followed my intrepid companion into the snow. He trudged through the ice, and I snatched at his coat so we wouldn't get parted. Holmes stopped, suddenly, and knelt in the snow. "Traces are being covered up before I can even see them," Holmes said. "We must return to shelter before we-" He suddenly paled. "I am so sorry, my friend," he said, and I followed his gaze back the way we had come. Our tracks had disappeared, and the wind was so fierce, we could not see the outpost anymore. Immediately, I knew that we would die in moments, so exposed to the elements.

"Gentlemen," a voice said, warmly. "Do you require assistance?"

At my right was a man in warm furs, sitting in the seat of a red sleigh. He was bearded and jolly and seemed to radiate warmth.

"Yes," I said before Holmes could say something foolish like "no." "Please." The man patted the seat beside him, and I clambered up. A second later, Holmes followed.

"Let me take you to my own home," the man said. "Hey, ho." His steeds- _reindeer? -_ started to trot forward, deftly maneuvering the snow.

"Thank you," I said. "What is your name?"

"You can call me Nicholas," he said.

"John Watson," I said.

"Sherlock Holmes," Holmes said.

Nicholas nodded knowingly.

The night unfolded strangely, as a dream. Nicholas took us to a warm stone manor with rich hot cocoa and a kind wife. Small men and women in red suits pranced around us, asking Nicholas questions in chittering voices and darting away just as quickly. Mistletoe and garlands and cookies were everywhere. We fell asleep in a richly decorated room with four-poster beds, and we awoke in Baker Street.

Holmes was sitting blankly in the sitting room when I stumbled in.

"Do you-?"

"Did we-?"

"I think…"

"What about the case?" I asked. Holmes held up a small note. "I awoke with the assurance that the bears will be returned safely to their homes and the smuggler will be handled. It's signed Nicholas."

I don't know who our Northern savior was, not for sure, but ever since Saint Nicholas has been mentioned to us since, we have looked at one another and remembered him.


	18. Chapter 18

**From Domina Temporis: Meanwhile, down at Scotland Yard**

Holmes and Watson had left Scotland Yard twenty minutes prior, separately, each supposedly on "errands." Read: to do their Christmas shopping for one another. Meanwhile, down at Scotland Yard, another tradition was taking place.

Lestrade twirled his pen. "I think it'll be...a silk hankerchef from Watson to Holmes, and a mustache comb from Holmes to Watson."

"Noted," MacPherson said, who had been elected this year's secretary.

"Not bold enough," Gregson said. "New writing desk and Chemistry set."

"I don't think Watson would get a Chemistry set, Holmes' set is fine," Hopkins argued.

"If it's fine, why's he keep setting things on fire with it?" Bradstreet grumbled.

"I think it's going to be a wool sweater and a disguise kit," Hopkins said.

"My guess is brandy and tobacco," Bradstreet said.

"Alright," MacPherson said, finishing writing. "Alright, same rules as always: one guess per Inspector. All guesses are final. If it is discovered you had help or knew prior information, your guess is disqualified. Closest guesses get top pick of cases for the first two weeks of the new year. Please sign to verify your guesses."

All the inspectors obliged, and started the the wait to December 25th.


	19. Chapter 19

**19\. From Madam'zelleG: Celtic Christmas**

On a lovely, snowy December day, I had undertaken the galling task of trying to decorate 221B for Christmas, and this year, I was prepared for my colleague's protests.

"Watson," Holmes sighed. "I simply do not keep the season. You must know that I hardly ever attend services."

"I know," I replied. "But in this case, I intend to use no religious iconography. Did you know, Holmes, that much of our decorations derive from Celtic lore? For example," I held up some holly and ivy. "The Celts believed that the evergreens kept evil spirits at bay. And mistletoe was thought to give health! The yule log is to bring good luck. The tree is decorated with symbols of life."

Holmes smiled wryly. "That's a lot of research to try and persuade me." He picked up his paper. "I have many more objections, but go on with your festive fripperies. I merely ask you tread carefully near the hearth. I am conducting some experiments on soot."


	20. Chapter 20

**20\. From SheWhoScrawls: A World Away.**

Sebastian Moran was sitting in a cab on his way to prison, flanked by two glaring inspectors, but he was a world away in his mind.

He was in Professor Moriarty's study at the university, spinning his antique globe around with his fingertips, while Moriarty paced, tossing and catching a piece of chalk absently.

"It's inevitable, Moran," he said. "The detective must be taken care of, and it seems I will have to do it , do not worry, Moran, I wouldn't go without you by my side. He has evaded me before, and I wouldn't go without a loyal companion." All this before Moran had been able to say a word; Moriarty had always had that peculiar way of knowing your words before you yourself did.

The cab jostled and he was back in the same office, years before the falls, and Moriarty had given him a dossier of a Mrs. Stewart. "Your instructions are clear," Moriarty said, his eyes steely. "And I have the utmost faith in you, Colonel."

And now he was thinking about India, and the heat and blood of battle, and of the tiger in the manhole he'd crawled after. Was it bravery or savagery that led him to the hunt, that led him to James Moriarty?

He recalled one afternoon in Moriarty's own rooms. He was only one in his employ who was ever permitted there. Moriarty made his tea bitter, but he handed the sugar cubes over easily. That afternoon they had done nothing but read their respective newspapers in silence...

Then he remembered the first words Moriarty had spoken to him, in a crowded New Year's Eve ball for a gentleman's club. "Hello, Colonel Moran," he'd said. "I have heard great talk of your exploits. My name is Professor James Moriarty. I trust you have not heard of my own exploits."

"I'm afraid not," he'd replied, bewildered.

"Excellent," Moriarty said. "I do hope we can be of some use to one another."

 _And we were,_ Moran thought, _right until he went over the falls._ _Today, I failed his memory._

He had tried to read Moriarty's mathematical treatises once, but they went well over his head. He suspected the man himself may have been like that. He may never truly know the man he had once called his closest comrade.

The cab stopped, and Moran went willingly.


	21. Chapter 21

**21\. From cjnwriter: Why doesn't Holmes like Christmas?**

"Merry Christmas, old boy!" I said when Holmes finally emerged from his room on December 25th. Mrs. Hudson had made a glorious spread for breakfast, which I had patiently waited to devour until my companion rose.

"Hmph," he said, sitting down petulantly and starting to fill a plate. I eagerly did the same.

"There are presents under the tree," I tried. "Would you like to exchange them now or later, during the party?"

"Later, I suppose," Holmes said.

"Very well, Mr. Scrooge," I teased.

"Call me Scrooge if you must," he said. "You know I don't care for Christmas."

"Yes, and I find it unfathomable," I said. "It is the day of goodwill and peace toward men, with excellent food and company. I see no disadvantages."

"I do," Holmes said. "Peace and goodwill mean no tensions and jealousy, meaning no crime, meaning no work, meaning drudgery."

"It may be true cases have slowed," I said. "But it is also true I have fabricated a case for you to busy you today."

Holmes looked interested. "Oh?"

"Yes. I have made eight duplicate packages. One contains your present from me. The eight packages are hidden with various acquaintances all over London. Some guardians may be known to you, others not. The challenge is to find the correct present and bring it back to Baker Street by the time of the party at four."

"When can I begin?" Holmes asked, eyes gleaming.

"After breakfast. Mrs. Hudson has gone to a good deal of trouble, so I demand you eat before."

Holmes took a bite of sausage with new resolution.


	22. Chapter 22

**22\. From Winter Winks 221: Against Impossible Odds**

It had been unlikely that he would survive the falls, and in truth, he had not expected to. It had been unlikely he'd survive Moran's rocks on the way up, and unlikely he'd evade Moriarty's web of henchman for months and years after. It was unlikely he'd take down them all without detection, and unlikely that he'd undo the evil Moriarty had done in all his time. But here it was, three years after his fall over Reichenbach, and he had, in the most unlikely turn of all, managed to defeat Moran, and come back home. Home to his flat, and his landlady, and his brother, and to his dearest friend.

He was not prone to sentimentality, but he mused upon the unlikelihood of events that had brought him back to the settee in the sitting room, with Watson scratching away at a letter, while the voices of Irregulars helping Mrs. Hudson cook Christmas dinner floated upwards.

He was blessed to have it all.

But after all, as he'd always said, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains is the truth, regardless of how improbable. The odds had seem impossible, but truly, they were only improbable.


	23. Chapter 23

**23.** **From Book girl fan: The Christmas turkey is missing.**

Mrs. Hudson marched stoutly up the seventeen steps to 221B. It wouldn't require the genius of Holmes to see that she was fumingly angry.

Where is my goose?" she said without preamble to Holmes and I, sitting innocently in our chairs. Holmes looked genuinely surprised.

"Apparently not in the oven, as it aught be," he said.

"You mean you didn't abscond with it for one of your frightful experiments?"

"I assure you, dear Mrs. Hudson, I did not. I would deprive Watson and our Christmas guests of such an excellent holiday repast."

"Then..." she looked defeated. "Then where is my goose?"

Holmes instantly adopted the keen-eyed look he got when he was on the scent. "Pray tell where you last saw the goose, Mrs. Hudson."

"Why, not ten minutes past. I had just finished preparing it, and I went into my rooms for just a moment to get a hair pin, as my hair was falling, and I like it out of my face when I cook. I didn't hear any disturbance, and I was gone for only a moment. Then I marched right up here."

"Hmmm," Holmes mused. "Downstairs we go, Watson. It is the scene of the crime, and we must search for indications of our man."

"But I still have to make the potatoes and rolls," Mrs. Hudson said faintly.

"By all means, please continue your meal preparations. I assure you I'll have the bird back before suppertime."


	24. Chapter 24

**24\. From Winter Winks 221: Holmes solves Santa's murder.**

Inspector Gregson stood at a grim scene. The snow was dashed by the prone figure of a man who looked, in all ways, to be Santa Claus. Beard? Check. Belly like a bowl full of jelly? Check. Red suit lined in fur? Check. Add to that the clear pattern of footsteps on the roof by the chimney and the marks of what appeared to be a sleigh, and it seemed that Santa Claus had met his end after toppling backwards from the chimney, sliding off the roof and landing on the cruel pavement below.

Gregson had not called Holmes, but he arrived all the same, with Watson and a very worried street urchin in tow.

"Thank you, Davy," Holmes said. "Please get back now. Your mother will fret." The boy scampered, with a frightened glance back at the body.

"Sorry to intrude, Gregson," Watson said. "We were alerted that Santa was dead."

"Certainly looks that way," Gregson said. "I must encourage you to stay planted on the ground, Holmes, what with the ice on the roof."

"Quite alright," Holmes said. "I can see the necessities from here. My first conclusion is that even ignoring the improbabilities of Saint Nicholas to begin with, the victim isn't him."

"And what tipped you off?" Gregson laughed.

"The faint scent of the very same beard glue I use. And of course, the fact he was on a rooftop on the wrong night. But the second set of footprints indicates it was a murderous push that killed our would-be Santa, not a slip. I should like to begin by questioning the house's tenants."

"After you," Gregson said. "Please, I beg, tell any children we encounter that Santa will arrive on time tomorrow night after all. I've fielded far too many such questions already."

 **( I couldn't kill the real Santa.)**


	25. Chapter 25

**25\. From Domina Temporis: Holmes gets recognized by fans.**

All of London had mourned the death of Sherlock Holmes. I had seen it firsthand, and felt a peculiar mix of gratefulness and bitterness from it. On one front, it heartened me to see that my friend was missed by those beyond his small circle of friends and colleagues, and to know that was in some small way due to my writings which had boosted his fame. On the other, I resented that others could profess to miss and grieve my friend who had not known him nearly so well or as long as I, and who could lift themselves much more easily from the haze of loss that I waded through at all times.

In fact, it became a fashion to wear black armbands of mourning for my friend among the younger population of London. I myself never wore one, because I felt I did not require a piece of clothing to indicate the great loss I had suffered. But I saw them on many passerby, and some days, it made me smile, while on others, where I felt less charitable, I had a less pleasant response to them.

It was some years after Holmes' return from the grave, and he and I were engaged in a conversation about disguises he had used successfully over his career.

"I think, Watson," he said, smoking, "That I have only been recognized in disguise a handful of times, mostly in my earlier days, due to inexperience. Not so much recently." At this, his eyes softened, as if he were in memory.

"Holmes?" I inquired.

"Watson, I have often been critical of your accounts of our cases, but it is true that they have brought me great admiration," he said. "One of the very few times I have been recognized in disguise was by one of your readers."

"Really!" I exclaimed. "Please tell me more, Holmes."

"I returned to London under a shroud of fog in the early morning," Holmes said. "I undocked in the guise of a sailor and went in search of breakfast. I left the docks and took a somewhat circuitous route to Baker Street in case a clever tail was following me. I ducked into a professional building and assumed a new disguise as a financial man, knowing a sailor would stand out at this distance from the docks. As I approached Baker Street, I noticed two young women in black armbands watching me curiously. I nodded to them politely. As I crossed towards Baker Street, one of them caught my elbow and said quietly, 'It is good to see you back in London, sir.' Her companion smiled at me, and they carried on their way. Undoubtedly, they knew who I was."

I was somewhat dumbfounded. "How do you think they knew?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps they applied my own methods. I will say, it was pleasant to hear a kind welcome before I even reached 221B."


	26. Chapter 26

**26\. From sirensbane: "Darn this newfangled contraption!"**

"Come, Holmes," I called. "I've finished assembling our gramophone at last."

"And it's time to christen it?" Holmes said. He was in a genial mood, having just solved a string of interesting cases.

"Certainly. What shall we play?"

"It is your gramophone, Watson. The choice is yours."

"Vivaldi it is," I said, carefully slipping on the disc. The opening notes started up, and I poured us a drink to enjoy while we listened.

After a while, Holmes remarked, "I do believe I prefer the concert hall. One can hear the notes resounding off the walls, and see how they impact one's fellow concertgoers as well as the performers."

"True," I agreed. "But nevertheless, it is a marvelous invention. You must agree."

"The technology is impressive in its way," he admitted.

"I expected more resistance from you," I teased. "I expected to hear you say, 'darn this newfangled contraption!'"

"Not yet," Holmes said. "Time marches on, dear Watson. We must march with it, and hope it does us good."


	27. Chapter 27

**27\. From cjnwriter: Holmes "accidentally" uses something belonging to Mrs. Hudson.**

Holmes was hoping to return Mrs. Hudson's teacups without being caught, but she was sitting in her kitchen in the dark, waiting for him.

"Mr. Holmes," she said sharply. "What are you doing with my good china?"

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "I did not intend to borrow it."

"You expect me to believe you _accidentally_ came into my kitchen and took some of my belongings?"

"I meant to take the chipped set," Holmes said meekly. "I grabbed the fine set in the dark."

"And what on earth did you _do_ with my teacups? I've never even seen you make tea!"

Holmes looked pained. "I helped Basil and Dawson with them."

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes. "You know I am fond of Basil and Dawson, Mr. Holmes, but that does not mean they can borrow my things without asking me!"

"I know. I apologize, dear lady."

"What did they need them for, anyway?"

"They fell into a drainpipe on a chase early this morning, and they woke up me half-frozen. They asked me to draw them a warm bath, and I wanted to get them something true to size, so I heated some water in the kettle and put them into your teacups."

"Sewer water and mice in my nice china," Mrs. Hudson said reproachfully. "I'll need to clean them with boiling water. Very well, Mr. Holmes. Hand them over." She added, more kindly, "Tell Basil and Dawson I will give them some shortbread later."

"Yes, madame," Holmes said, taking the opportunity to bow and make his exit.


	28. Chapter 28

**28\. From Book girl fan: "Stop the wedding!"**

 _"The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone_."- _The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier_

Watson was on his honeymoon, and Sherlock Holmes, though scarcely willing to admit it to himself, was lonely.

It was perhaps petty of Holmes to feel such a way. He had become entirely used to Watson's presence after his return from London. With the loss of Mary, Watson had no reason not to move back into 221B, and with his practice sold, he had little other engagements besides that of Boswell. They had passed an adventurous and enjoyable ten years, and then along came Violet, a striking woman fifteen years' Watson's junior, with a viable womb and a good sense of humor. The engagement was a foregone conclusion the first time Holmes observed Watson return from a walk with starry eyes.

Holmes had been best man for a second time, and a childish part of him had been tempted to cry, "Stop the wedding!" Watson would've been furious, so Holmes kept his peace, despite the roiling anger at his abandonment, growing only since Watson had purchased a new home and started moving his belongings there.

And now he and his bride were in Ireland, and Holmes was simply unsure what to do with himself. He looked at his pile of correspondence, pinned to the hearth, and considered organizing it, as Watson had often nagged him to do.

A knock at the door, and Billy the page answered. "A Mr. Dodd?"

"Please send him up, Billy," Holmes answered, happy to have been saved from busywork by providence.


	29. Chapter 29

**29\. From Madam'zelleG: Stuck on the roof**

 **(Something of a continuation of our murder of 'Santa.')**

Ike Einarsson was not having a fruitful night, or for that matter, week. He and Johann had argued earlier in the week, and Johann had pushed Ike, and Ike had pushed back, and then Johann was falling through the air and Ike was scampering down the drain pipe out of there. Their trial run had been botched, and now here he was on Christmas Eve night, the night of the job, and he hadn't practiced adequately on their planned street, and to throw suspicion off he was on an entirely new street they had only canvassed for a day before moving on.

He hauled himself on the rooftop and starting making sleigh tracks with his skis, then hoof tracks with a severed reindeer paw. He tracked toward the chimney and hauled himself up. The plan was to use his acrobatics training to swing to the drainpipe and jimmy a window open to get in. The window in question was always a child's, in case they woke up, so they could be persuaded to go back to sleep while Santa did his work.

He crouched, ready to swing, and let go, but suddenly, there was a bang like a revolver shot, and he skidded, stumbling down the roof, barely catching himself on the drain pipe.

"I suggest you stay up there, sir," came an authoritative voice. "Scotland Yard is the back, and my Boswell and myself are right here. Either are ready to apprehend you for murder and theft."

The detective stood in the gaslight, his companion holstering a revolver beside him.

Ike was stuck on the roof until he was stuck in jail.


	30. Chapter 30

**30\. From Domina Temporis: Watson discovers a hidden talent.**

I was somewhat accustomed to the unexpected appearances of the Irregulars in our rooms. They often popped up with reports, or sometimes their own small struggles, and sometimes they just were hungry.

One such post-Christmas Day, Holmes was visiting Mycroft, and I was enjoying the flat to myself, when there was a frantic bang on the door.

"Come in?" I said, and in shot Wiggins, Alfie, and Martin, looking terrified.

"Boys, whatever is the matter?" I said.

"Oh, good, we lost 'im," Wiggins said.

"Who?"

"We're in deep, Doc," Marty said. "We got in bad with Ollie Suggins."

This was said as though I simply must know who this Ollie Suggins was, and when I merely looked confused, Alfie explained, "Ollie's another street boy, he's got his own gang. Well, we was playing marbles with some of his boys, and we won, and then one of em bet us we couldn't win two out of three, and then we got in a tournament, and Wiggins said, 'well, let's make it interestin'-"

"I'm telling ya, they cheated somehow," Wiggins insisted.

"Well, anyway, we lost the tournament, and we owe Ollie Suggins money we don't got, tell you true, Doc, and he's fired up."

"I see," I said, with some sympathy, being a man with a weakness of my own for gambling. "And what do you intend to do about this?"

Wiggins shrugged. "Lay low."

"I think I have a better idea," I said. "I will come with you, and we will have a rematch. I'll be referee to be sure it is all fairly played, and whoever wins this round will pay up."

"What if we lose?" Wiggins asked.

"Then I will pay the prize money. Come now. Take me to your marbles."

Ollie Suggins was a tall, heavy boy, about Wiggin's age. He had heavy eyebrows and a keen look about him. He accepted our terms gladly. I wondered, uneasily, what he and his gang were involved in.

With my keen eye, the game passed fairly, and Wiggins struck a wining blow. I suspected, by the way Suggins kept fingering his pocket, he'd been slipping extra marbles into the ring when the Irregulars weren't looking. Suggins and his boys, to be fair, went to pay up, but I directed them away from Wiggins and to me, and said, "Here, I will count the amount," and slipped it back to him. "Sh," I said quietly. "I daresay you need that money." I took some coins out of my pocket and gave it to Wiggins.

"There. All's well that ends well." I smiled. "Gambling aside, this looks like a good way to pass your time when you can, boys."

"Would you like to play, Doc?" Alfie said. "I don't gotta get home for a while."

"Why, certainly," I said, kneeling. "I think I know the rules."

That day I discovered a hidden talent for marbles.


	31. Chapter 31

_**And this is it! It certainly took me longer than I would've liked, but I'm very glad to have participated in the Challenge this year. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, and also sharing! I enjoyed reading your responses immensely.**_

 **31\. From Madam'zelleG: You'll catch your death of cold.**

At nearly seventy-five years old, the trip from Sussex Downs to Cardiff had worn on Sherlock Holmes, but given that Watson had visited his cottage but a month prior, the holidays were to be passed at the Watson household this year.

"We are old men, Holmes," Watson said jovially. "I want nothing more than to sit by the fire and talk with you."

The house itself was warm chaos. Watson's children were grown up, now, and several had children of their own. His wife, younger and more vital, was entertaining downstairs, while Watson and Holmes sat quietly, as they had so often done in Baker Street in between their adventures.

"Any resolutions for 1929?" Watson inquired, and Holmes shook his head. "You know I never take any, Watson."

"Ah, that's true, " Watson said. "I'm tackling the last of our tales while I still have my facilities, Holmes. I don't want them to die with us."

"They won't," Holmes said, looking out Watson's study's window, where the stars shone clearly and sweetly. "You have touched many readers in your time writing for _The Strand."_

"And you many clients. And Scotland Yard," Watson said with a twinkle in his eyes. "And your Irregulars, of course. I received a letter from Wiggins today, in fact, wishing me the joy of the season."

"He sent me one as well," Holmes said. "I am very proud of him- I believe he could be commissioner one day."

Outside, it started to snow, and a clamor rose from downstairs.

"Nana, can we go out? _Please?_ "

"Oh, fine, but wear your coats, or you'll catch your death of cold."

Watson laughed. "I've got a good family, Holmes. I've been blessed in many ways."

"And so have I," Holmes smiled. "Happy New Year, Watson."

"Happy New Year, Holmes."


End file.
